


The Gilded Cage

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Paternity, Amorality, But I love conflict, Complicated Relationships, Dubious Morality, F/M, I have no idea what I'm doing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Middle Ages, Rape, Scheming, Uncertainty is amusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:24:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Tourneys have set themselves as the blight of many a maiden's existence. Why should this one be any different? The answer, obviously, is that it won't be any different, except that it might be worse.AU! Lyanna is trying to keep her son safe as the cross of wills between king and prince threatens to shake the realm once more.





	1. i.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Poppet, you mustn’t,” Lyanna admonished gently, tugging the pins free from the thin gauze. “The rose will be spoiled.” The girl frowned and stuck yet another pin through her work. She merely sighed at the obstinacy and sat down, waiting for the door to open.

Her intuition had not failed her. “There she is, my beautiful lady.” The girl leapt to her feet and ran to her father’s arms. Lyanna looked away. She could not quite credit the affection for it was right before her eyes. She supposed she had no wish to. “What’s with the long face?”

“I wanted Jon to go riding with me,” the Princess whined. “But Lady Lyanna says he is much too bruising a rider for me to keep up with.” Instinctively, she flinched. “He doesn’t ride quite that fast.” As though the girl would know. But then Lyanna could not blame her. She had never truly ridden with Jon. And she would have liked to keep it that way.

Unfortunately, His Majesty had other plans. “He doesn’t,” the King agreed to his daughter’s sentiment. “Call that son of yours up, lady, and let him know the Princess requests his presence.” Gritting her teeth, Lyanna managed a placid nod. She motioned for one of the servants to go. “As for you, sweet, go find a horse to your liking.”

The Princess’ septa rose as well with a low murmur. Much too soon there was only she and he left in the chamber. Lyanna dared to look upon the man in the wan light of a dreary, gloomy day. How well it suited him, the pale, mean light. In fact, he looked almost as he had a decade past. She very nearly grimaced. Lyanna had promised herself after all that her thought would only occasionally stray. It was not yet time to give in to the urge.

Aerys chuckled and sat down in one of the chairs, eyeing her back with vague appreciation. He must have planned to harm her somehow. Gently drawing back, she held his stare with her own. “There will be a tourney, in honour of Viserys’ nameday. You are to attend with the child.” Her absent nod was of enough of a reaction. “I must stress that you are to act within the parameters of your role.” Her lips pressed together tightly and she drew air through her nose. “You do not look pleased.”

“I am pleased.” She was also sick to her stomach. If he wanted her there, it must be because Rhaegar had agreed to come as well. Wasn’t a decade punishment enough, she wondered? Interesting how the man refused to harm a hair on his son’s head but was more than pleased to kill all there was within the man.

A soft whooshing noise escaped his lips. “So you should be.”

Their conversation was cut short by the door opening yet again and the son in question sauntered in, his face a mask of tranquillity. Lyanna made a subtle motion with her fingers, encouraging the continual use of the face. Jon did not look at her, he did little to let her know he had seen the sigh. But for all that he kept a straight enough face as he bowed to the King.

“The Princess would ride with you,” Aerys said without preamble, “you will do your utmost best to satisfy her in that and whatever else she asks of you. Am I clear?”

Jon blinked in rapid succession and nodded his head in a most serious manner. “Yes, Your Majesty. I shall do my utmost best.” Better than having any other demand made of her son, she suspected, but Lyanna did not take any pleasure in the knowledge that the Princess would be once more given advantage over her son. Jon was sent off with a nod from the King.

Daenerys was by no means a tyrant. She was however in dire need of companions her own age, companions who were not bastard sons implicated in a conflict between men who knew no better than to involve others in their spats. However, that would not matter much. Aerys had decided he would pursue the matter and would encourage a warm relationship between the two children, without much thought to what it might lead to. “Your Majesty, is it wise to have them so close to one another?” The man offered a brief terse smile. “They shan’t be children forever.”

“Precisely what I am counting on. Have I not told you already, I mean to treat the boy in the same manner I do any other child of mine. You needn’t look so forlorn, my lady, I promise you shan’t know any suffering from it.” Excepting the one she already knew. “Not on this account.”

How very heartening. “She might find she likes him beyond what has been allowed to her, Your Majesty. I know the girl’s heart.” She was certainly almost a mother to the child, despite the unwillingness of anyone to admit as much. “I beg you to reconsider.”

“I do not plan to.” And that was that. “We are not to be impeded by any complaints from you, lady. If you would be so kind, you will continue as you were. These two are brother and sister, after all, and ‘tis my call to whom I shall give the opportunity to care for them. Surely you would not wish your son taken from you this soon after you have regained him, aye?”

“I would not.” And the agreement was what the man had been looking for. She said no more, for if Aerys truly meant it then he had a goal in end and she would have to speak to her father soon, find a way to extricate herself from the situation if it could be had. He’d not yet replied to his last letter, but hope was a hardy thing. It would not be so easily extinguished. There would be a letter, before she was forced to make for King’s Landing. The very thought made her stomach roll. The smell would be stuck in her mind for moon turns after she returned here.

Her mind rebelled at the very thought but any protest would be met with threats. Time was a good master, not kind, but tremendously capable in teaching lessons. “I know. Mothers are so very interesting. Ever willing to do what they must for their children.” She did not make a sound at that. “My sister was the same. At times you remind me much of her.”

Did he miss her, she wondered. Rhaella had been such a kind woman. Hurt and soft and very much incapable of helping herself out of a most horrid marriage. But she had taken Lyanna under her wing and she had loved and coddled Jon, even when the whispers ran rife. Lyanna regretted she had never had the chance to watch the children grow. To see Viserys become a young man and her daughter learn to ride. And she regretted Jon had lost a person who might have loved him as well as she did, a person who would not use him in schemes. Alas, she was gone and would never return.

“I am glad, Your Majesty; Her Majesty was a most wonderful woman.” She had no need of infusing sincerity in her words for the compliment had been from the heart. Whether the King understood or not, she could not tell and she did not find she cared overmuch about it. In fact, she would be very glad if he did not understand. The man would benefit from some confusion every now and again. His plans were not going to find success forever. Or so she hoped. One day someone would catch on and that would be the end of it. Hopefully.

The King stood to his feet, rising in such a way as to signal his side was bothering him once more. “That was not a compliment as such. A mother is one of those creatures one admires in relation only to her children. But then you are a daughter as well, and a sister. I wonder, if I made you choose, which will you pick?”

She has already chosen, had she not? “My family. I am a creature of habit, I fear, Your Majesty, and that I cannot change. Even for the lofty ideal of entertainment. What other choice can I make?” At this point it would be foolish to turn her back on the first choice she had made.

“Lofty ideals, indeed. Would you like to know how your brother fares?” She nodded without as much as a moment of hesitation. If there was one good thing about the monster coming to visit with frequency, then it had to be that his birds were ever twittering. And the gods knew she was always willing to listen to news of her brother and rely it further to her father. “He is yet alive, unfortunately. Wolves, I find, are tiresomely obstinate and extremely handy with weapons. And horses. One must not forget horses.” She flushed, recalling that horses were a big part of what had landed her in trouble. “The life of a rogue suits him well.”

“Might be, Your Majesty. My brother has always been wild.” She shrugged her shoulders at his look. He would, of course, be willing to engage her in contradicting conversation, but she was equally unwilling to do the same for him. As she’d previously maintained, time was a marvellous teacher.

“You were never one to be outdone. Now if only that boy of yours would have inherited that from you.” A rather sore point, which continued to rear its head apparently. As she could not hope to change her son’s colouring, she would have to make do with ignoring the pointed accusation hidden beneath the thin veneer of civility. He held like ideas about Rhaegar’s eldest child. But then that was another story altogether and she would do well to keep away from that. “But I suppose one can’t have it all.”

“On the contrary. ‘Tis simply a matter of juggling one’s burdens.” She would know, wouldn’t she? Although Lyanna supposed it was nowhere near true that one could have it all at the same time. She did not let on that he might have a point. His mood was yet light and she would not wish to give him reason to sour upon her.

He, on the other hand, was fully prepared to continue speaking.  

 

   

    

                                                                                                                                                                    

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tale in up to 10 short, short parts...because why not.


	2. ii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sullen face of the Princess occupied her sight in its entirety. The septa made a soft snorting sound, one which Lyanna interpreted as her being impressed. Jon, on the other hand, did not hesitate to loudly proclaim the following, “Good. Then you ought to leave the wheelhouse and make for the keep on foot.”

“Jon, that is no way to speak to your sister.” Not that he took any notice of her chiding. Daenerys did not listen either. Instead she lunged for him, a grunt upon her lips. Jon often engaged her in such play. And sometimes he even allowed her to win. It was quite useless to wonder when that might happen as he rarely let on that he meant to do so. “Children, I do not wish word of this to reach your father.”

But it was much too late for any of that. Both of them knew Lyanna would not take the matter to Aerys and since the septa would follow her lead, their scrapes were unlikely to ever reach the man. Thus any punishment he might or might not mete out was left to imagination. The children continued their struggle, with Jon losing his seat. He fell to the floor with a sharp sound and Daenerys landed on him, fingers curling in his hair, falling to tugging. Her son cried out and she lurched forth, grabbing the girl and dragging forcibly off.

“If you do not behave yourselves I will have the both of you walking after the wheelhouse. I vow it.” Something in her voice must have warned them, for they stilled. For a long moment only the harsh breathing could be heard. Her arms were starting to smart. The girl was not just as light as she had been last she’d seen her. “Must you act like uncouth urchins? Before we reach your father’s home as well?” She had thought they had had enough time to indulge in romps.

“You needn’t worry,” the Princess answered tartly, “Jon and I will behave. In the Red Keep.” And with that explanation she saw fit to escape thee prison of Lyanna’s arms. Her very next move was to fall upon her foe. Jon, ever gallant, pushed back against the attack. Having the natural advantage of sturdier built, he defended himself admirably, with Daenerys knocking against Lyanna’s knees.

If ever anyone had suggested that her sweet-natured child would take a short-fused temper as inheritance from his father, she would have laughed in their face. After all, Jon was the boy who clung to her skirts and kept a scrupulously unreadable mien even when in great pain, such as that time he fell out of the tree and dislocated his shoulder. And one small girl, apparently, was enough to rile him up like nothing else. She would be tempted to blame kit all on Targaryen madness, if not for the fact that Daenerys gave as good as she got and sometimes presented herself as instigator.

“Both of you deserve a good trashing,” she said, gently pulling the Princess to her feet and guiding her to the septa’s waiting arms. “Jon, come here.” It seems you must be kept apart if we are to survive this.” Her son slid away from his companion and clambered to her side. Lyanna firmly caught his against her and pinned him with a hard stare. “I expect I won’t have to worry about the two of you acting the heathens in the King’s court.”

It was one thing to have them run free where no one could see them. But rumours were already bad enough concerning her without the blasted courtiers thinking she encouraged the two of them on a path of destruction. “Yes, mother.”

“Yes, what?” she questioned softly.

“Yes, we will behave.” Jon chanced a glance towards Daenerys. “Well, I know I will.” For a split-second she tensed.

“I will as well,” the girl answered pensively, in the way little girls did when their much favoured toy was taken away. “Just as long as I am allowed to keep company with Jon. You must promise, Lady Lyanna.”

She did that, the Princess, forever hound her with this notion that she and Jon somehow had to be kept together. “If your father allows it, poppet, you know well I cannot protest.” The wretched cat grinned, showing perfects rows of straight teeth. “But I would not get my hopes up,” she quickly intervened. “He might well decide it will not suit him.”

Aerys did have some plan. Some foolish notion, she was certain, to scandalise half his court. And amuse the other. As far as courtiers went, the crop contained within King’s Landing fell along two well-established lines. She imagined that mirrored the rest of the world, but it offered little comfort. The idea that half the people she would ever meet delighted in moralising at her was not an appealing one. At least with the ones who were much too jaded to care, one could have a laugh.

And then there was the ones for whose opinion she did care. Lyanna swallowed a sigh. It would not do to consider that. She had promised, had she not, and she was once more ignoring that. “Your father might wish for you to spend time with your brothers,” she ventured, realising she had lost the thread of conversation and that such a lapse had allowed the Princess to run ideas by her unchecked, which likely translated into a belief on the child’s part that Lyanna was agreeing.

Daenerys paused, her mouth still opened. “’Tis not every single day that you get to see them. Pray consider that much when you make your plans.”

“Father will allow me to spend time with whomever I wish. And I wish to spend time with this brother of mine,” she pointed to Jon unabashedly. “Viserys never plays with me anyway.” And Rhaegar rarely had. But then he had a small daughter of his own to care for. And a son. Lyanna could not help the brief smile upon her face. “Then we are agreed?”

“A good attempt, but I have already told you, if your father allows it, I shall as well.” Daenerys pouted. Had Lyanna been anyone else, that was an unsuspecting creature just happening by, she would have doubtlessly been pulled in. as matters stood, she lifted her chin and felt only somewhat foolish to be battling wills with a child. Dragonlings were a hardy lot, and more than that, they rarely back from a challenge.

“I will get father’s permission.” She nodded. Apparently that was not enough. “I will, you’ll see. Jon believes me; don’t you, Jon?” Her son cocked his head to the side. His lips pursed as though in deep consideration over the likeliness that such words would come true. “Jon! Don’t tease.”

He, of course, took great delight in provoking the girl. “I am not. Now hush so I may think. How can one think with your caterwauling?” She winced and barely stopped herself from chiding him. The camaraderie between the two remained intact though, even throughout the scowls they exchanged.

The septa heaved a sigh. Lyanna assumed that was what relief sounded like. For herself, she still held her breath, wondering when it was that she’d go blue I the face. Or her heart would fail. Or she would fall in a fit. Forsooth she was yet young, but stranger things had happened. “You may be able to do it,” Jon finally allowed, “but only if you are diplomatic about it. Do you know what that means?”   

“I could hit you, brother. You may be the better of it as well.” Jon shrugged.

Good gods, let them not fall into another of their brawls. They would be entering dangerous territory as it were. While she concerned herself with begging mercy of the gods, or at the very least a well-disposed Aerys, the children delighted themselves with ganging up upon the poor septa. Lyanna sent the woman a commiserating look but refrained from intervening. Someone ought to help her every now and again as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes one could feel so strongly about another that their very presence set off ringing bells of alarm in one’s head. Without even seeing them, one new, just knew that they were there. Rhaegar had had several such people kin his life. The one with whom he was concerned at the moment though was of the ire-inducing variety.

A shiver travelled the length of his spin and she stopped mid-speech, eyes darting towards the entrance of the hall. True enough, there she was, dragging two children in her wake. He tried not to stare at her. But even his best attempts were thwarted as Jon Connington gave an odd little murmur; an acknowledgement. And he was fairly forced to acknowledge her presence as well when half the court stopped its prattling to gawk.

He had seen her before, certainly. One could not escape the plague so easily. Fortunately for him those times had been marked by the presence of his lady wife and thus a most forbidding context to engage one’s tormentor. Not to mention his blessed mother had yet lived and she had counselled caution on his part. Something he had never thanked her properly for. But then Rhaegar did not think himself the model son, thus the knowledge did not bite that very hard.

The lady, and he used the term as loosely as possible, paused as well. Her eyes briefly met his but passed over in a hurry. Displeasure bloomed upon her face. His father’s absence, Rhaegar had little doubt, left her ill at ease. He shouldn’t wonder at that. “Surely the King does not mean to allow Lady Lyanna to drag his daughter about so.” Connington’s comment was almost lost on him.

Daenerys had indeed pulled out of Lyanna’s grasp and accepted a curtsy from a bold courtier who decided it was a bright idea to approach the trio. Lyanna turned to the man as well and exchanged words. She, apparently, did not need o show good breeding, except that her collocutor instead of appearing insulted laughed. It was then that Rhaegar called to mind his name. That was without doubt the son of Lord Bolton, recently down from whatever wild parts he hailed from. Her father’s bannerman. No wonder she saw fit to speak to him without as much as a moment of consideration.

“Surely not,” she was saying, waving her hand dismissively. “I do not believe it of them.”

“I vow it. Bracken and Blackwood are as fierce as ever. And stubborn to a fault. I thought it might come to violence.” The boy, Rhaegar was fairly certain he was about Viserys’ age, chuckled.  Admittedly, Bracken and Blackwood could be trusted to make a spectacle of themselves. His stomach squeezed nevertheless at the smile Lyanna bestowed. Fickle is as fickle does, he told himself. Not that it much helped. “If only you had arrived earlier.”

“I am sorry that I did not manage it.” She eyed her son who remained at her side even as his own sister sprang into action, eyes catching sight of a larger group of younglings. She shot off without as much as a by your leave. Lyanna, he saw, did not attempt to dissuade her. And the boy resisted her call with a small shake of the head.

He sighed. It looked almost as though the child wished to cling to his mother’s skirts. Instead he met a question addressed to him head on. “Unfortunately not, ser. I am told my age will not permit it.”

“Another time,” Bolton’s son declared affably, turning his smile back upon Lyanna. “I trust you are still interested in that horse Lord Stark was kind enough to make mention of in his letter.” She nodded. “You won’t be disappointed, my lady. I promise. ‘Tis a fine beast.”

“I am surprised you would part with it. As I heard it, Lady Barbrey does not make gifts twice.” The insolent pup laughed, explaining that Lady Barbrey was his aunt and the matter would not strain his chances of getting another horse. “That is good. I should hate to think I was putting you out.”

Of course she would, Rhaegar thought mockingly. How could anyone think she was less than the soul of generosity and compassion? His temper, much like a river flooded, threatened the banks of civility. Before he could make a move though, a pair of stormy eyes fell upon him.

Rhaegar considered his brother. A brother he had not expected to have thus late in his life. Or rather a child he should have hoped were not is brother. Nevertheless, Lyanna’s bastard boy, his brother beyond the shadow of a doubt, held his stare with something like admiration. Losing the thread of conversation between the Northerner nobles, he nodded at the boy. The child, younger than his own son, gave a brief glance to his mother. Seeing her thus caught in a most fascinating conversation and with others coming to join as well, he slipped away.

It was not the children he made for though. Rhaegar sent Connington off, finding that he could not concentrate either way. If ever there was a good thing come out of a tragedy, then his youngest brother was certainly it. He would never admit as much, but there it was. He found himself unable to blame the boy for his mother’s faithlessness. And then why should he? Jon was family.

“Not joining the lists this year, I hear,” he spoke softly, unconcerned that some eyes had turned to him. The boy shrugged. “Just as well. That means one less competitor to worry about.”

“Your Grace has joined the lists?” He’d not. The last time he had jousted, Rhaegar had won a crown and lost his heart. He never wanted to pick up a lance again, if it would be used in a joust. “Mother says–“

He dearly hoped Jon had not caught the wince. “What does your mother say?” he questioned.

Lyanna had finally taken notice of her son’s whereabouts. Worry flashed across her features. She did not break conversation though.

“Go on.”

“Mother says,” Jon spoke, and Rhaegar suspected he allowed the words out deliberately slow, “that I should be glad both my brothers have met the rigours of the joust with much success. She says it means that I too will do the same.”

He almost laughed. A knight in the joust indeed. His heart very nearly wept. “I’ve no doubt.”         

 

  

 

 

 

 


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: In case it was not clear, fanfiction is not a place where I put up my personal positions on much of anything. Because this is imagined situations and not your course in Gender Studies (yes, I'm still taking the piss, because if you do Gender Studies, you might as well have written your own diploma on a piece of paper).**
> 
> **Thank you!**

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her face ached from keeping the smile so very firmly in place. It would take a little while for her blood to flow normally, she expected. “Must I, Your Majesty?” she questioned, hoping he’d not been serious. The man regarded her with a decided lack of interest, fingers twisting around her own. One of the blades dug into the back of the hand and she winced. “I am perfectly–“

“It grows boring, hearing you complain.” As though she could do much else. It was a most embarrassing display. Lyanna would have said that much to his face, were she not certain he would poison all her family for his own amusement. “Most tiresome.” The blade cut deeper, its sting tearing at her flesh. Would she need stitches? Doubtful. She had never needed a stitch in her life. Cruel he might be, but she suspected the King had grander plans which involved her. “Go along and make nice to the rabble.”

The rabble was, of course, made up of his courtiers, much as they meant to him. Much as they meant to her, as well. Lyanna swallowed the desire to protest. It might her her nowhere, or it could get her in trouble. She slid off the small seat placed, most uncomfortably, into the side of the throne. Her slipper caught into the hem of her skirts and she faltered, eyes falling to the offending garments. It was most unfortunate.

It had been a number of years since she had had the misfortune of holding attention in court, even so she felt the heat scalding her cheeks and somehow managed to save herself the  disgrace of tumbling down the steps by jumping backwards. Fortunately for her, the misstep was met with only a few titters and a knowing look or two, on the presumption, she assumed, that there was something more to it. She ignored those as best she could, taking the stairs one by one, her step slow, her smile returning.

One of the first to arrive at her side was the Hightower heir. She turned her smile upon him and was rewarded with a like expression. “Lady Lyanna, I have been trying to catch your eye all evening.” The statement was met with a nod. “I take it you knew.”

“I did see you, ser. Alas, one is hardly free to move as one would. His Majesty was most adamant I remain at his side.” It was his turn to nod. Lyanna did not truly know whether he believed the excuse as such. Baelor Hightower had never given her cause to suspect him as being anything but a most courteous man. That did not mean, however, that he held her in like esteem. Still, one had to give him credit for his behaviour. “How fares your kin?”

“In good health, my lady. Which is most fortunate. My sister has been asking after you, hoping you might convince His Majesty to allow a visit.” Raising one eyebrow at his words, she twined her arm with his own. “She is most distraught that you missed the wedding.”

Malora was distraught? How very curious. “I was sorry to miss the wedding as well. His Majesty would not be moved by my pleas.” Jon and Daenerys had been in her care then as well and she would have needed to take them with, which the King had protested. He held in distaste the idea that his daughter might mingle with the lesser lords and sers, not to mention he feared some knave might spirit her away. Absurd, but she hadn’t had the power to oppose him, thus she had missed Baleor’s wedding. “You have not brought your lady wife along, I see. Was the travel much too rigorous for her then?”

He laughed. “My lady wife rarely wishes to travel.” One had to wonder at that. Were she wedded to a man like Baleor, Lyanna suspected the ladies of the court would find her most unbearably inculcated within a cocoon of strictures  keeping them far, far away. But then she was not precisely lax in her manner, which might explain her train of thought. “She does however assure me her refusal is tied to more than her distaste for long travels.”

Her head shot up. “Are congratulations in order, ser?” Half a decade and no children, surely it must come as a tremendous relief that the lady could finally refuse an outing on account of a delicate condition. “I am filled with joy at the thought.”

“I can only hope that is the case.” Malora had written to her often enough that she knew, at least in the broadest of terms, what guided the steps of the household’s members.  As such she found herself united with the man in his hopes, but note entirely blinded by her hopes Rhonda was some years her junior, nevertheless all her past attempt to present her husband with an heir failed. And a pity that was. “But while the need for felicitations is yet to be a certain thing, I must insist we do not steer away from the subject. My sister hopes you shall be more in charity with her wishes.”

“If she feels so strongly about it then I can do little more than agree to try.” That was the extent to which she was willing to make promises even as Baelor gently pressed for a more substantial vow on her part. “You must tell me about the lists, ser. Are you joining?” Silencing his attempts for the moment, Lyanna demonstrated an appropriate amount of interest even as she caught sight of Jaime Lannister and his sister, near one of the long tables.

“Indeed, I see naught for it but to join, although between the two of us, my lady, I would rather take up arms in the melee. Alas, I fear for my life should I return without having don precisely as my kin desires.” He laughed. She laughed along, but in the back of her mind a niggling feeling poked about, a desire to know whether she was placing herself in the path of danger.

“I shall look forward to seeing your performance, ser.” Her fingers unclenched from around his arm to rise in a gentle wave towards another Northerner who caught her eye. He inclined his head but she declined calling him over. “It must be rather exhilarating nevertheless, even if oen does prefer the melee sword to the jousting lance.”

“One could always take a jousting lance to the melee, although I fail to see how bludgeoning contesters left and right will fare when the blades come cutting in.” Led to a bench, they say down together, side by side, almost as old friends might. ”The idea appeals?”

“To the extent to which I were able to make a small bet or two. You see, ser, as I am disallowed from much else as pertains to the melee and the joust, I take what crumbs I might.” A servant approached with a cup in hand. She did not question it much, beyond assuring herself the wine had been watered. She downed a mouthful.

Baelor produced a thoughtful sound. “And what would your bet be, my lady?” Lyanna allowed him to contemplate the matter for a few moments until she was free to give a reply.

“That much I cannot yet tell. I will promise to consider my options carefully.” He nodded, for that was the only thing he could do. “I wonder the manner of answer you were expecting of me. It is, nonetheless, a most daring question, ser, and I should wonder that you do notask for a favour directly. It would be most amusing.”

“On that we are in agreement, but it would be much too bold for me, I daresay.” She patted his hand gently in an understanding sort of way, which seemed to go a long way. “I see I have stumbled upon a kind soul.”     

One did get the feeling every now and again that men were of the impression that the kindness of women was all-encompassing and thus would embrace them as well with the same enthusiasm they had for their children. In doing so they deluded themselves even further upon the nature of their partners, which suited Lyanna well enough. She offered a sharp smile but said little else as court gathered about her.

Geris Coldwater bowed and addressed her in the jesting manner of his, commenting, quite languidly, that he was desperate. “Verily was I assured His Majesty would not allow your escape. Your visits are sparse enough, my lady, as it is.”

Denys Lanny, not to be outdone, joined his companion. “We were hoping my lady would be so kind as to bear witness to our skill and decide who is the better man.” She barely had time to consider as agreement permeated the small circle. If anything, she would be playing shepherd to a flock of unruly lambs. Her laughter rang out.

The better man, she suspected, would not be found amongst their group. Still, she favoured the courtiers with a droll look and tipped her head to the side. “Ser Baelor, you seem to have unwittingly invited competition for my attention. Now look. What shall I do when the best man wins and I have promised a favour elsewhere?”

“Ser Baelor has your favour?” This voice she did not recognise straight away, but the edge to the words gave her cause to start. Lyanna lanced towards the direction from which it came, only to be met with the penetrating, and most uncomfortable, stare she’d had levelled at her as of yet, discounting Rhaegar. “Is that wise, ser? To be heading in the Stranger’s direction?” Her teeth clenched. She had not yet caused the death of anyone.

“My lord, you give me too much credit,” Baelor answered in the same tone of voice he’d used thus far, apparently unintimidated by the barbs thrown his way. Younger eyes watched the intruder with suspicion. Lyanna was suddenly glad that men were so obviously attracted to danger. She would have hated to face Jon Connington on her own.

Were she to claim fear of him, it would be a lie. Connington would not harm her himself. He would, however, do as he had done before and run to Rhaegar with his own understanding of the situation. That put her in quite the position. Dreadful, uncomfortable position it was. Her mind snapped back to attention.

“My lord, good sers, pray do not court dissent at my expense. I would not have it said I encourage such behaviour.” She stood, pressing past Gerion and Denys, and stood before Jon Connington, forcing an air of superiority around her to act as shield. “As for my favour, Lord Connington, you need not concern yourself, though you do me a kindness with such thoughtfulness. The only man who shall have it is one peerless in the realm and most assuredly to be vexed should I rob him of the opportunity.”    

Connington returned her brazenness with a small, curling smile which cooled her from the inside out. Briefly, a sense of fear overtook her and she wondered what manner of speech he had prepared. Whatever it was that she had done to the man, not that she recalled anything truly horrific passing between them which would merit her his scorn, she did, nevertheless, find herself on the receiving end of it and must prevail, with whatever weapons she had.

“And who is this paragon of virtue, my lady?” Connington drawled. Attention was evenly divided between the two of them. Lyanna felt the whispers of those around, brushing against her nape, causing a light tremble in her hands.

Before she could answer though, a new threat appeared. Lyanna swore under her breath.

“What are you about, Connington?” She flushed. They stood face to face and he was not even acknowledging her with more than a glance.

“Lady Lyanna was about to tell us to whom she will grant her favour.” While he spoke, she wondered whether her face had grown redder. She could not tell, but she had the feeling the Prince had grown annoyed.

“Jon is my champion, as is fitting,” she spoke, unable to help herself. If the fool thought to cause her trouble he had another thing coming. Lyanna refused to gratify him and she dearly hoped Rhaegar’s sense of decency, whatever was left of it, would warn him away as well.

“A mother’s prerogative,” Rhaegar allowed, seemingly in possession of a crumb of decency. “Connington, I fail to see how this is a matter requiring out attention. Come along.” He was still not looking at her. But at least he’d pulled back his dog, which was more than she had trusted him to do. Nevertheless, he had. On the one had she wondered if she ought to speak to him, on the other he had not addressed her directly, it would be rather peculiar for her to approach him, even in a chamber filled with people. Besides, she much doubted it would not blow into a scene worthy of gossip.

A hand pulled on her arm. “My lady, shall I return you to His Majesty?” Baelor asked, looking for all the world as though he worried over her.

“Mayhap it would be best. We shall consult on the matter of your sister another time.” He nodded and offered his arm, which she took with nary a word beside.

Led back to the King, Lyanna climbed the steps leading to the throne and the smaller chair at its side. Aerys regarded her with a pleased mien. She did not have to wonder long about his thoughts. As His Majesty had never been shy of sharing his triumphs, he invited her to sit with a nod of the head. “Masterfully handled.”

“Was it for Your Majesty’s benefit that Lord Connington came to me?” He chuckled. “I do not appreciate his interference. Nor his insinuations. I thought this was to be a tourney, not an attempt to build more conflict.” The gods knew relations were tense enough as it were. “Are you looking to goad your son into direct confrontation?”

“He would not dare.” Showed what he knew. “Not a drop of daring in that one. Last he made an attempt the briefest of prodding took down his plans.” She would not precisely say it had been a gentle attempt on his part. Lyanna did not comment on the King’s methods. Instead she narrowed her eyes in a glare. “Such a sour expression. Must you continue on so?”

“Apparently I must. Was it not you who said you would treat Jon as any other of your children? And yet you know put him in an uncomfortable position. I have no wish to place myself between you and your son, Your Majesty.”

“Alas.” And to such an argument she could do little but return her attention to the crowd, willing the time to fly by.

For whatever reason, her pleas attracted the attention of the gods and time did seem to speed by as the chatter dwindled into muted conversations as the hours flew by. When Aerys rose, she followed his example and did her best to keep on her face a placid mien as the man stopped to exchange words with a few of his courtiers.

The King ordered her to attend on him, as was his custom at court, or when they happened to reside within the same structure of bricks and timber. Fortunately for her, the first few years had taught her she need not fear them there. All other chambers brought her to his mercy. Within this one, well, she could get away with more than she dared to anywhere else.

The royal bedchamber was as dreary as she recalled it being. A few years of absence had done little to make décor grow on her. Her opinion thus left in the same position it had been before, she sat in one of the chairs, glowering at the ruler of the realm. “If you have some complaint, you may speak.”

“How magnanimous, Your Majesty. Alas, I do believe I have said all I wished to. There are no more words I wish to share.” He approached, a devious expression upon his face. Were it the visage of a child, it would have been endearing. On him, it rather turned her stomach.

“I see your backbone has made a return. See that it does not take you too far, lady.” She nodded. “Now that that is settled, on the morrow I want you to see to the children.”

“I thought I was to attend the opening of the tourney.” He shook his head. “Very well, Your Majesty. I will do as you will.”

“Daenerys and Jon will have need of you. But the ones I want you to watch are my son’s.” Since Viserys had yet to produce offspring of his own for Lyanna to raise in her capacity as mistress of the King, which for some reason included her caring for the babes of the King’s sons, she was going to presume he meant Rhaegar. “You need not look so put out. They are well-behaved children. Well, as much as any child could possibly be.”

“But His Grace would never approve.” She’d thought she had escaped that trap. Lyanna hid her distress behind a barricade of annoyance. “Your Majesty, you must consider what the implications of such should be. His Grace, I am certain, has brought for his children a septa. That should suffice.”

“She will be indisposed on the morrow.” Good gods, was he planning to kill the poor woman? What lengths would he not go to? “And you, my dear, are the only available replacement I would trust with my grandchildren.” Lies, all lies; he did not care about any other person than himself. It was all a game to him. “We are understood, I take it.”

“Perfectly as long as Your Majesty promises I shall not suffer for it.” He waved his hand. “Your Majesty, I must have some form of protection. I insist.”

“Very well, I allow you might need some protection. Shall we say, a Kingsguard? That should be more than enough.” She nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. “I believe Ser Dayne will do.”

He was trying to make her go mad. Lyanna was convinced he was having the time of his life, at her expense. “Ser Dayne will do admirably, I am certain.” Arthur Dayne she had treated very much like she treated Rhaegar. They had had no cause to speak to one another since the last she’d been to court and even then, their conversation had contained no more than a brief exchange. Added to which, she knew Ser Dayne was close to His Grace. Might be the King wished for her to cross paths with his son in such a manner that he could not ignore her presence. “To what end do you seek, Your Majesty, to have His Grace witness this arrangement? I assume, you do mean for aught of the nature to happen.”

“You assume a lot,” he returned, though she could not detect disagreement in his voice. “Concern yourself with the children and leave my son to me. He is nothing to–“

His hand rose to his chest, eyes widening to the size of saucers. She jumped from her seat, instinctively reaching out as the man slumped over. His weight was too much for her to support though and she found herself falling backwards into her seat, the King following. Erratic breathing reached her ears. Was it his, or hers? Fingers dug in the folds of her dress, tugging harshly. Lyanna continued to stare down, quite beside herself but not entirely certain what she ought to do.

Her sluggish mind latched onto a notion and before long she was calling for aid.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the new chapter. I hope you enjoyed.


	4. iv.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The flickering candlelight momentarily wavered, light dimming even further as the fuse disintegrated under the influence of the flames. From without the sound of falling footsteps came as a mild distraction. Rhaegar opened his eyes, turning on his side. His weight pressed the mattress closer to the wooden frame. For a brief moment he considered climbing to his feet and exploring the cause of such late exercise.

The keep had long retreated into various chambers and he imagined most of them slept or concerned themselves with various entertainments. Some devil whispered of his father and his entertainments. Rhaegar scoffed.

“Y’er Grace,” a soft voice called, startling him. He’d forgotten her presence. “Aught amiss, m’lord?” Her fingers splayed against the back of his shoulder. He could feel the heat even through the cloth of his garments.

Rhaegar turned, shaking her hold loose, levelling an empty stare at his companion. She sat up, making no pretence of her intentions, offering sight of unclothed flesh. “Naught to be concerned for.” She made a soft sound in the back of her throat. He might even call it thoughtful. Dispassionately, he watched as the woman combed her fingers through her hair, the golden ringlets dancing merrily. It made her look younger, somehow.

He decided upon further consideration that it was a combination of the soft light and the encroaching darkness. One softened, the other hid. No wonder she looked as well as she did. “What are ye’ thinking, m’lord, with such a serious face too.”

He kept his counsel, electing to dismiss her worry. Understanding the unspoken command, she turned away on her side, drawing the coverlet until it covered all but a rounded shoulder. He ought to fell some sort of loss, should he not? Instead he mirrored her earlier actions and found himself a comfortable position, closing his eyes against any further intrusion.

His comfort was not of a long-lasting nature. Never had it been as such, thus his surprise at having his peace disturbed by heavy knocking on his bedchamber door did not come as a surprise. Irritated, he stood with a sharp order to his companion to remain where she was and walked to the door. He opened it, ignoring the shrill cry of protest, in favour of concentrating upon the face of a young acolyte.

The boy bowed, his chalky complexion not helping Rhaegar’s temper any. “Your Grace is needed in His Majesty’s chambers.”

The words gave him pause. For a moment he thought he’d not understood. Last he’d been in that particular chamber it had been to make certain his mother received proper attention as the madman had left early in the morning on some sort of hunting trip. And that had been years and years before his decision about the man had been made.

“You are certain?” He nearly missed the nod answering his question, so caught was he in the whirl of his own emotions. The leap from one memory to the next was not a great one. Moreover contamination never failed to give him something to fear.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. We must hurry.”

“In a moment.” He closed the door in the acolyte’s face and moved to grab an overtunic. Hazel sat up. She twisted a thick strand of hair around her finger. “You may leave whenever you wish. I know not when I am returning.”

Once adequately dressed, he left Hazel to the blankets and resumed thinking upon his father as his hand moved to open the door. The acolyte waited for him on the other side, the lamp in his hand flickering as the candles in his chambered had guttered. He received a long look without comment. Best not to encourage active speculation.

With a sign of his hand the journey towards his father’s chambers commenced. He was not at all surprised to see two Kingsguards at the doors, both looking rather morose. Whent pulled a face at the sight of him. Selmy merely blinked slowly. A warning? Neither man said a thing. He did not expect that they might. While the knights knew their fair share of secrets, it would be a cold day in hell before they acknowledged such in company. Taken apart, well, that was not a plan worth pursuing. Might be at a later time.

Rhaegar did not knock. He entered with nary a word to anyone. The sight awaiting him told that his choice had been the correctinstinct to follow. One’s gut feeling was rarely wrong.

Pycelle leaned over the prone form of his father, gnarled fingers applying something to the man’s forehead. Lyanna was there as well. She sat in one of the chairs, fingers clenched in her skirts. The heavy curtains trembled. He surmised the fist she had formed trembled as well. A twinge of sympathy was swiftly crushed into a small heap of dust.

She took notice of him about as soon as he saw her, Might be a few moments later. She stood, wavering slightly. He wondered whether she was about to fall over. But then her spine straightened and the steel in her eyes pierced him. “Your Grace. Grand Maester, I do not believe my presence is needed any longer.”

“Stay.” He should have allowed her to go.

“I beg your pardon?” She did not even address him properly.

“I do not give you permission to depart Therefore, sit yourself back down, my lady.” She did not object. At least not verbally. Her form eased back into the seat. “Maester, what news?”

Pycelle, who must have finally seen his opportunity, shook his head. “I fear there is naught I can do. His Majesty is gone.” No grasp came from the woman. No did she weep. Composed, Lyanna folded her hands in her lap. Rhaegar wondered what she was thinking about. He did not have an opportunity to question. “The Kingis dead. Long live the King.” Silence befell them. “What are you doing, girl? Greet His Majesty.”

“Long live,” she bit out tersely in response to that.

“Leave us.” She blanched, understanding, he suspected, that the order pertained to Pycelle. The Maester understood as well if the speculative look in his eyes was anything to go by. He, nevertheless, made himself scarce. All the better for him to speak. Rooted to her spot, the she-wolf threw him a spiteful glance.

When the chamber held only the two of them and the corpse, he gained enough courage to face her fully. Her mouth curved downwards even further and her face gained a most curious quality. “If you expect me to fall to your feet and beg for mercy, I tell you now I shan’t no matter what you do.” He did not answer right away. It was much easier to mount an attack once the person knew what the enemy planned. Silence lingered. “Well?”  

“What I want has nothing to do with you.” She scoffed, which was an entirely Lyanna-like answer to give and unfortunately for him one which fit the truth of the matter. Still, he would not dare touch her even if the ceiling crumbled and the Father came down upon a ray of light ordering him to do so. It was too great a risk. “If there is anything His Majesty promised in return for your service, I will honour his word.”

“He promised nothing. You already know that.” He blinked, not entirely knowing what to make of her outburst.

“Are you certain, my lady? Think well. Whatever it is he promised, it shall be yours.” Might be his father had long since transferred pertinent payment in her possession. It could be that, or it could be an act. He could not tell and did not wish to delve deeper into the matter.

“Nothing,” she reiterated. He nodded and turned an eye upon the body lying motionless. Hadn’t he once considered that his father’s death might lift some of the burden pressing down upon his shoulders? That was not the case. In fact, the longer he stood there, the more the burden pressed.

“Very well, my lady. You may depart for your chambers whenever you so desire.”

“That is all?” He started, turning his head ever so lightly to catch a glimpse of her. “Last I checked I was not labouring under the effects of the sweating sickness, Your Majesty. If you would be so kind as to–“

“What do you want?” He snapped without meaning to. Rhaegar had come with a vested interest in keeping his temper in check. He could not afford to fall into that trap once more. “You say he promised nothing, and I will certainly not make any payment on his behalf.”

“I am not a whore, you knave! How dare you suggest–” Her words ended in a growl. “I do not expect kindness from you, but surely decency is not beyond you.”

“Decency?” He shook his head. That she believed him capable of his was flabbergasting. But then she’d spent a decade in bhis father’s company. The gods only knew what her mind was vcapable of conjuring. “I suppose I can summon some.”

“Oh good. I should hate for a repeat of earlier insults.” Rhaegar flinched. She was not referring to his implication, but rather to his actions. She, on the other hand, advanced towards him, her expression as calm as the surface of a deep lake. “I do not fear you.” More the fool her, he was terrified of himself. “Yet clearly, you find me frightening. What for?”

There was no answer which would not rip wounds open. “My lady, if you are quite done, I should like a few moments with my father.”

“Of course you would, as evidenced by the close relationship between the two of you sustained throughout the years.” She was mocking him. Rhaegar supposed it was only natural. There were no secrets she was not privy to, he imagined. “Spare me, Your Majesty.”

“Why do you insist on provoking my ire?”

“Why do you insist on being obtuse?” He had no idea what she spoke of.

Their conversation advanced no further as the doors opened and Viserys stepped in, carrying his sister gingerly. Jon followed behind. The girl was weeping, face hidden in their brother’s shoulder. The boy kept his mien calm. Much like his mother, he seemed more or less untouched. Unfeeling?

Jon moved to his mother’s side and she embraced him against her side, bending to whisper something in his curls. The child nodded and his attention was stolen by the weeping Daenerys. His sister opened her arms wide to be transferred from one brother to the other. Rhaegar did his best to soothe her but it became apparent in the shortest amount of time possible she would not quieten down enough for anything of sense to be achieved.

Viserys approached the mistress as well and they exchanged a few brief words. It seemed to him almost as though his brother trusted whatever it was the woman said. And why should he not? He had not been involved into the unfortunate debacle. “Viserys, do not dawdle.” His sibling turned with a placid nod and approached their father. “Daenerys, follow your brother’s instructions.”

Jon was the last to move to the bedside of the deceased. Unlike Daenerys or Viserys, he only took the hand and pressed the back of it against his cheek. A most unusual manner of showing affection, but it certainly was better than deserved. In truth, it might well be there was a closer relationship between these younger children and his father. The gods only knew that he spent enough time with them for that to be the case.

At long last they filed out upon the end of an order that they were not to make common knowledge of the fact that the King had passed. There would be time enough for that come morning.

Left with the corpse, Rhaegar sat down in the chair Lyanna had vacated, brushing the palm of his hand over his face.             

 

 

 

 

 

  
  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear trigglypuffs! I hope you've had enough time to get over all the triggering commenced upon our delving into this story-line. This chapter is a bit short, I know, but tomorrow I'm having my graduation ceremony and I still have exams to take. So, little time....
> 
> This brings me to my point, that two-years amount of time I've given myself...it won't work. I think I'll need three or so. :( Sorry guys, I know you were looking forward to have it all done asap, alas, RL beckons. 
> 
> Thank you for your attention and enjoy being triggered. 
> 
> P.S. I am trying to veer with this in a Dostoyevsky-ian direction, so some of this may seems strange to you. I'm taking the _Crime and Punishment_ model. Since you already know my opinion on the matter, I'd appreciate informed discussion on what Dostoyevsky's ideas (very good ideas, of course) and their Nietzchenian counterparts bring to the table (i.e. no pomo, please). :D


	5. v.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I see no reason to delay.” Rhaegar kept a steady gaze upon the hardened expression upon Arthur’s face. The truth was he had expected at least some form of disapproval. “We shall need to prepare the body and have custom observed, but otherwise, I do not plan to delay the tourney.” He would not mourn for someone like his father. That man deserved not a single tear.

Soon enough he’d be just another name added to a list of long-dead kings. A stain upon the history and times on his rule; the perfect sort to have spawned someone like himself. Were it possible, Rhaegar would have gone on with the tourney this very day. Alas, the dead were afforded at least some consideration, whether he wished it or not.

“What will you do about her?” This time Arthur did allow a flicker of emotion to grace his expression. Rhaegar frowned. That was not what he wanted from his closest companion. Understanding implied he had grounds for compassion.

“She is free to leave whenever she wishes.” His father had kept her at Summerhall, the one location Rhaegar loved beyond words. How would he ever bring himself to step within the new keep, walk along the floorboard when the image of Lyanna repeatedly treading those same halls for very near a decade kept firm hold of him. The madman might have at least considered settling her elsewhere. “My brother, however, stays with me.”

“If she wants to stay?” Even out of his suit of armour, the Dornishman presented a challenge. This fortitude he had so admired in his friend years past came as a blow in such moments that he did not want to consider matters. “Custom is to see a highborn mistress well settled. Of course, you’ve no obligation to. But it will be expected. Lord Frey’s latest wife is recently buried, I hear. There is Lord Bolton to consider; her brother might appreciate the match.”

“You have given this some thought.” The knight inclined his head. Frey was an old leech. One of these days he would die and leave behind his swarm of offspring to prey the realm. Though he imagined Lyanna could well handle such a man if she’d managed with his father, the thought did not sit well with him. Lord Frey had buried enough wives to put a whorehouse to shame. And then, the she-wolf was past the first blush if youth. Bolton he knew so little about. And that was enough to put the man out of his mind permanently. “If she wants to stay, I will not disallow it. Whatever I may believe of her character, she is my brother’s mother.”

Pain knifed along his side, settling deep within his chest. Resisting the urge to press a hand to the sore spot, he, instead, listened to present company. “Then you have made up your mind upon the matter? You will not give her to some lord?” That was the correct manner of phrasing it. Rhaegar would not, after all, be giving her away. Nevertheless his first instinct was to deny the charges.

The knowledge however put an end to tat; the denial died upon his lips. “I always considered my father among the most pathetic specimens of our species. Though he held mother in no regard, he refused her every last bit of solace.” A perfectly arched eyebrow shot up. “Now that I am in his position and I might make a decision to set myself apart from him, I find it impossible.”

“My father once told me,” Arthur began upon an exhale, “that a man mist ever be careful of women. They bring more trouble than they make up for. The most dangerous of their kind are those who have known a man.” A soft smile curled his lips; Rhaegar wondered at the meaning behind it. “He said a woman’s first lover tends to leave a bit of himself imprinted upon her.”

“What are you getting at?” Had he, though, left anything worth holding? A woman’s first lover, Dayne had said; not a man who had deliberately caused her harm.

“That he ought to have considered men are equally capable of such folly. Only they tend to latch onto the memory of the first woman they loved.” Arthur cocked his head to the side and another wave of unwavering understanding touched his face.

“If that why you chose this life?” Why had he never thought to ask? Arthur was a fine knight, as fine as one would ever find; but he’d never once admitted, within Rhaegar’s hearing, that he had wanted to be named on the Kingsguard. He’d simply bowed his head at the invitation and took it for an order. “To keep safe?”

“My secret is out.” Though he exhibited no additional behaviour indicative of it, the flat tone was enough for him to know he had found a weakness. A sore spot. “Do not tell Ser Gerold, Your Majesty. He would not understand. Thinks of me as the bravest soul.” 

They chuckled. “Be that as it may, I have known you almost all your life. When did you have the time to encourage such a tangle?” The problems of others were that much more appealing to discuss in light of his own. Something he could apply his mind to without ghosts of the past harassing him.

“That I shall keep to myself.” Disabused of the opportunity, Rhaegar waved his hand dismissively. “Nevertheless, have you considered the outcome of keeping here on?” People would not forgive such an ungainly display. The unfortunate truth was that they would assume that she served the son in the same capacity she had the father. No doubt before long rumours would fly. Had she managed to inure herself to such insults? Could she insulate herself?

A sharp breath broke against the silence. “They will talk whatever I do. Whatever she does.” Dayne nodded his head. “What I know is that I will not allow my brother to suffer such indignities. If I have to protect his mother as well, then so be it.”

He dismissed Arthur soon after with a soft warning that he was to keep his eyes peeled to Lyanna and her son. But mostly on his brother, he added hastily at a knowing glance thrown his way. It was slightly unnerving that he was so transparent. If only his friend knew. At times he felt like slinking away from even the smallest acknowledgment from the knight. Their position should have been reversed. A man like Arthur would have never done as he had.   

After the departure of the Kingsguard, he was left to a mound of letters and such, all matters that his father had not seen fit to take care of in a proper manner. They would have been visited upon the council sooner or later, as was expected. Yet a few of them were quite urgent.

Rhaegar caught sight of a neatly folded square. What served to engage him was not the flowing writing, but the tongue in which the author had chosen to rely the words. Bastard Valyrian was a less common sight in his father’s court. Though he expected that had to do with trade dwindling. Choosing to ignore all other matters for the moment, he picked up the letter and unfolded it.

_He survives still despite the severity of his wound. As Your Majesty instructed, the best healer has been engaged. Meantime his fortune is ever increasing. It seems the man had enough sense to not part with his coin on activities so popular with his brethren. For the moment, I have naught else to report upon the matter._

_I await further instructions._

That was appropriately mysterious. Whoever was the recipient of such attention, Rhaegar found himself wondering, as he tried to decipher the meaning behind the words. While it seemed straightforward enough, one’s eyes sometimes unwittingly lied. He should write back and ask that this person be brought to King’s Landing.

Indeed, that was the best he could do, given such a vague denominator did not yield much to work with. The Spider, of course, might know, but so very early after his father’s death the eunuch might be compelled by old loyalties to keep his peace. He did not return the paper to the pile of letters. Instead he folded it and hid it away in an inner pocket.

The next hours were spent penning replies in his father’s name. It was not so very different from running Dragonstone, except that these demands far outweighed the ones he’d grown so accustomed to. Nonetheless, the same principles still applied, which left him in a similar enough position that the discomfort to himself was negligible. Before long he would have worn the tip of his quill and a new one should take its place if matters remained as they were. Might be his father had the right of it when he chose to pass these duties to someone else.

Once at the last of the missives, he was relieved to find it contained nothing more egregious than an old quarrel played out between younger foes. He amused himself with the case laid out before him and decided against giving any sort of verdict. Best not to place himself in the path of a centuries-old conflict.

Abandoning the pursuit of complaints in favour of the stately kingly chambers, Rhaegar barred the doors against any intrusions, making directly for his father’s desk. Only for a heartbeat did he allow his eyes to land upon the empty bed. The body had been removed sometime during the early morning. He’d not been there to oversee it, leaving that to the capable hands of the Grand Maester. Pycelle must have grunted and grumbled at being kept from his bed and whatever unfortunate court lady found herself pressed into entertaining him. As it were, he could but sigh at the absence and feel himself fill with shame at the lack of remorse. The natural thing to feel in such circumstances was clear as day to him. And yet even when he tried to summon a drop of grief, all that welled up within him was anger.

Bracing his arms against the top of the desk, Rhaegar leaned his whole weight against the structure. Harsh creaking assaulted his ears. Still, he persisted. Stoking the flames of his fury, even when he knew it was entirely wrong of him to do so, he found that not even the newly-won crown could make up for what the old man had stolen. Indeed, he considered it theft; for what else could he name the act of preying upon the hopes and desires of a young woman to lure her away from, relative safety.

The worst of it was that he could not even convince himself of the act that his father had even wanted Lyanna. She’d simply been a way to needle him, to punish him for his ambitions and his scheme. It all returned back to Harrenhall, and the crown of roses and his father’s suspicions, not unfounded, certainly, but not nearly as advance as Rhaegar would have wished the danger truly was to them. If only he’d had the sense to write to Rickard Stark beforehand, reach an understanding. Alas, he had thought himself the smarter man, the braver one too for defying a madman. Had he known Lyanna was the price, he would sooner wait the tyrant’s death.

The past was unchangeable though. Rhaegar allowed the thought to poke around his head as he pulled one of the drawers out. It was filled with more sheets of paper. He pulled them aside, depositing them away. A bundle rested underneath. Vaguely interested, he picked it up. Bound letters, from what he could tell. Not very recent ones either.

The string holding the bundle together fell away under the unyielding tug of his fingers. The missive at the bottom had been badly crumpled. The one at the top was visibly torn. It had been cut, actually. His interest climbed to new heights. Without much consideration, he took the first of the missives and tugged the corners loose.

He read the first of the lines.

Fingers clenched tightly around the piece of paper, Rhaegar widened the gap created by whatever sharp object had caused it. It was the shock of those words, he reasoned as his wrist set to trembling with something akin to relish. The sheet of paper shook as well, as though caught in a violent storm. Ink bled into faded tones of yellow. At the edges some of the letters were smudged. Almost as though fingers had crossed them over countless times. His, or hers?

He tore the second letter open, then the third, the fourth. The rest dropped to the ground as he lost his grip on them. Unable to resist, he made for the last.

_Wait, and whatever is said to you, know that I am coming. I do not expect it to be long now._

Falling back into a chair, he stared at the words for the longest time. She had given his thoughts away. Somehow he’d had hopes that she might have burnt them. Or kept them. An angry yell crawled up his throat from within the bowels of his being. He flung away the letter, tipping over the stack. Why had his father kept these? To have fun at his expense?

That could not be. His father would have wished to torment him. Yet he never had. Something had stopped him. A last shred of decency?

He would have thought nothing of using Lyanna, so it was not for his benefit. Rhaegar lifted the last of the letters, looking at the markings above. Not long after he had brought her to King’s Landing. Not long at all. It had been so easy for her to give up waiting. But he’d had to. Elia deserved an explanation. As his wife she deserved his attention and consideration; as mother of his children so deserved his respect. Might be Lyanna had been angry that he bade her to wait. That had prompted her to turn in whoever direction that held attention. And his father had done nothing more than take advantage of her desire to be given attention.

Putting on armour and riding at the joust, accepting him even when she knew he could never put Elia aside, latching onto his mother and remaining at her side even as the King’s mistress; how could he ever doubt she thrived when in the centre of attention? Yet after the Queen’s death, his father had sent her away, at the rebuilt Summerhall, to waste her days away there, with no courtiers to vie for her attention, with naught to do but wait upon him. How well she’d carried herself in the great hall, managing the young bloods loitering about. He remained impressed. But then Lyanna had a history of impressing him. How could he possibly help it?

There were other papers for him to give his attentions to. Amongst them was a very interesting note detailing a plan. A plan to leave Summerhall to his youngest son. Not to Viserys. He thought back to his exchange with Lyanna, without even meaning to; had she known? Did she hide it from him? Nay, why should she? This was to her gain. So this had been his father’s plan. Rhaegar continued to read. An attempt on the part of his sire to ensure that never again would any father be betrayed by his own blood, a means of keeping an heir closely bound, outside the reach of temptation.

As plans went, it was brilliant. Enough so that it would not raise too many eyebrows, but not enough that his message would remain muddled. Jon was to have Summerhall. Viserys would be granted Dragonstone in his keeping. And him, his oldest, would be bound to court, forced to take on role of Hand of the King. So a new tradition would be born.

He laughed, for he perceived at lengths what it meant. There was little use in wedding Lyanna. She would be mother to the lord of Summerhall, a prince in his own right. Born on the wrong side of the blanket; nevertheless a prince. His brother. But then why had Lyanna said not a thing? Was she might be ashamed? But then she must have known; why else would she have denied any direct advantage to her. Certainly, as direct compensation went, it could not be said that she benefited from it, however, she would have told him were that the case. It was in her son’s interest; he had no evidence to suggest she was a fool. Therefore, he could only conclude, meantime, that she had not known about it.

Then that brought to question the location of the papers wherein his young brother was being legitimised. And no matter where and how much he looked, there was no paper to the that effect. Which meant, that the old bastards had died leaving him a free man. A man who could, if he wished, undo all of his father’s plans. He could make certain the he and whoever followed him upon the throne had more than enough power at their disposal.

Control was what his father had wished for. Coming to that realisation left him somewhat calmer than before. Not enough to put all thoughts out of his mind; especially not the suspicion that there had been something much grander at play. Whatever his father had planned, with the mysterious man someplace in Essos, with Lyanna’s son and his legacy, it must have come about in rather slower a manner than what he was finding.

The best thing to do was to summon Lyanna and ask her. He would never step foot in Summerhall again. What had been of the House Targaryen in that place was long dead. Jon could have it; as a gift. And he would not protest if she were to go with him when came the time for it. Until then though, he would see whether her family could be prevailed upon to see to her needs, if she wished it, or if she would feel more comfortable here.           

 

   

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another useless chapter, because you guys kept asking. I expect my due, of course. 
> 
> Reminder: This is not a guideline to my personal opinions or political creed. Do not read it as such. Really, don't.


	6. vi.

 

 

 

 

 

 

History was strewn with the corpses of those who had gained a little progress at the cost of a great deal of difficult decisions. They had thus prepared themselves for destruction as soon as the movements of their opponent gave them an illusory victory. Or if they had not, their demise came as a surprise, which invariably made the wound much worse. Lyanna tugged the furs past Jon's shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He would not wake for some time yet.

With that in mind, she moved to the chest, picking the cloak she'd left out up. She wrapped it around her shoulders, pinning the cloth with a wolf-brooch. Her finger trailed along the side of the beast, sliding it down to the leg. One last look at her son confirmed he slept much too deep to be bothered by her departure.

Having more or less lost her position as mistress, Lyanna was not at all surprised to find a mere guard at her door. The man inclined his head, not asking as much as a question. "Patrek, you need not stand here all night. A few hours of sleep should do you a world of good."

"My lady, I cannot possibly leave," he replied. "Orders are orders." She eased her lips into a lax smile.

"I shall be all the easier for knowing your presence is close to my son. I shan't be long." Since he neither protested, nor encourage further sharing from her side, she left him to his duty, not at all displeased with the outcome. If the gods resided on her side, she would manage to get her hands on what she needed.

And then, much as she did not wish to, she would beg, aye, down on her knees if need be, Rhaegar to allow her to return home. Father would not deny her right to reside in his home, nor would he refuse to search for Brandon.

Lyanna arrived safely to the King's solar, but she could see clearly enough that the gods mocked her. Arthur Dayne and Jonothor Darry stood sentinel. The first greeted her with an inclination of the head while Darry, more subtly, softened his expression. "Am I to understand His Majesty still works?"

"Kings need not sleep," Darry said.

"Neither do knights, it would seem. Announce me, if you would." She asked it of Jonothor in lieu of Arthur, knowing the latter would attempt to stop her. Darry turned to do her bidding.

Meantime, the other Kingsguard stepped towards her. "My lady, I do not know that now is the right time to approach him. There are too many things left unsettled and you are not like to find much understanding for your plight."

"I have no plight," she assured him. "I am merely going to make my request." Dayne seemed none too pleased by her answer, and she was no more pleased by his attempt.

Darry returned with an invitation upon his lips. Lyanna moved past Arthur with a soft pat to his metal-clad shoulder. She entered the solar with an easy step, pleased that mourning garb made use of the lesser charms of crushed velvet and strict lines. It had the distinct advantage of not tripping her into falling flat on her face.

"Your Majesty," she greeted, dipping into a light obeisance.

"A tad late to be walking about, lady," he motioned to Darry to close the door. Lyanna listened to the dull thud. "How may I be of use?" Something in his gaze cautioned her to the fact his civil behaviour was but a thin veneer. She did not retreat nevertheless.

"You said you would not repay me for my services to your late father." His fingers drummed against the tabletop. "And I shall not ask for that. But there is a request I have. A request I hope you will consider." She took in a deep breath while he cocked his head to the side, giving the appearance of being all ears. "Daresay you recall my brother, Brandon." He nodded. "And I am certain you remember His Majesty decreed that should he step one foot inside the kingdoms, he shall lose his head."

"I daresay I do. You wish me to grant him forgiveness." It was not so much a question, but she nodded. The words would be too dear. "To what purpose? He will, I imagine, make another attempt."

"He would not."

"Who would make certain of it?"

"I would."

"You would?"

"I would. I am a loyal subject." A grin of disbelief was his answer. Lyanna decided against taking him to task for it. "Brandon misunderstood much of the situation at the time. If Your Majesty were willing to show mercy, I would see to it there are no more misunderstandings."

"I do not doubt your sincerity." Except that he seemed to. She gave no comment. "But you must consider that my father is barely cold and you are already asking that I go over his word. What am I to understand, my lady?"

"That as a sister I am asking that you seek justice for my brother." Their eyes met and held. "That if you at any point held me in any affection, you will consider my position." He motioned towards one of the empty chairs. Having indicated in such a short manner that he was willing to speak to her, Rhaegar finally resembled the young man who had so effectively risen her to unreachable heights. How very easily he had pulled her into the dust and ash afterwards.

"Such crass manipulation is beneath you," he said, presumably responding to the latter part of her request. Lyanna did not look away. "Whether I care or not, I will seek justice. If I do so, it shan't be for you, but for the principle of the matter. Now tell me, what precisely do you know about your brother's whereabouts?"

"Not much that may aid," she admitted, her tongue thick in her mouth all of a sudden. It had been a risk coming to him. "I know he did not go farther than Essos. More than that I was never told, nor was I given the opportunity to find out."

The man made a thoughtful sound. "What a strange thing to say, my lady; you were never told. I understand my father was supposed to tell you?" She gave a sharp nod. "Then you have come to the wrong person. I thought you would be aware, might be more than anyone else, that I did not share his knowledge."

Her lips pursed as annoyance beat down upon her. "I wish you would not play games. He promised me that as long as I had his protection, my brother would live. Having lost the privilege, I must turn to you. Conceivably, you might find it in your heart to go beyond whatever petty squabbles were ever between us."

"Petty squabbles. I suppose you might wish to call them as such. I already told you, I shall look into the matter. If there is nothing else, then I do have other matters to consider." For a brief moment worry stole over her. He had not refused to aid, in fact, he had even suggested he was willing to support the scheme. However, it left her cold that he would so easily dismiss her.

"Petty squabbles, precisely. If crass manipulation is beneath me, then it must be that petulance is beneath you." He stood, towering over her. It was something his father had enjoyed doing as well, if she recalled. "You need not look at me so. I too may speak truth."

"When it suits you, I trust you do." If he were not so dear and near to her heart, Lyanna would take a blade to his throat. Or at the very least to his ego. Sometimes he stepped above himself in such a manner that left much wanting.

"Trust then that it suits me now and that I am speaking the truth. You stepped into a cesspool knowing fully well what it was that you would find. What is it you believe you are doing now by taking your anger out on me?" She stood as well. He still towered over her. And she supposed she still felt a trickle of fear even knowing herself in relatively safe waters. "I asked in good faith."

"You've my agreement. If you could only hold back from making the situation more difficult than it need be."

"Very well, Your Majesty, I shall not make this more difficult than it need be. Pray, tell me, what are the appropriate actions I should undertake?" That question seemed to leave him speechless. The sort of look he had upon his face was more than enough to let her know she well might have gone too far. "Shall I disappear from your sight? Must I be silent?"

"I would rather you were sharp." The words were quiet, as though speaking them put a lot of strain upon him. As though speaking to her put a strain upon him. Lyanna did not perceive herself to be enough of a threat, as matters stood, but she might well be in his eyes. She took one step back, her leg knocking against the chair.

His reaction was instant. He froze, rather in the manner of a caught hare. If she'd had any doubts before, they were swiftly dispelled. "I am sharp, Your Majesty. I have always been sharp. Might be more so than you ever gave me credit for."

"Beyond the shadows of a doubt." She straightened, noting that her lack of agitation seemed to bring him upon the right path as well. "Let us hope then that I won't be making the same mistake twice."

"I do have a proposal, Your Majesty. If you would grant me the benefit of your attention." She placed a hand upon his shoulder, pressing back lightly. He followed the unspoken instructions. "I am willing to come to an understanding. If you return my brother, I shan't give you any cause to think of me ever again." There, that ought to give him what he wanted.

"I would not allow you to take my brother with you."

"Why should I wish to take Viserys with me, Your Majesty?" Only too late did she realised her slip of tongue.

"You know very well I mean you may not take Jon. You may, of course, take your leave whenever you see fit. But I cannot be expected to part from my family." Lyanna winced, unable to feel the stop the hurt from manifesting. She must have given too much away, for he began speaking again after what had seemed a final statement. "This is not a matter I am willing to negotiate." And neither was she.

"I am his mother. He is just a child." Her argument was met with a shrug. After all, he was unable to dispute any of her claims. "I should have at least that, Your Majesty, for all that I have suffered. 'Tis only fair."

"You chose your path, Lyanna, and now that it no longer pleases you, you mean to change course?" He shied still from reaching for her. She stared back mutely. It had not been her choice. "I will not have yet, lady. You may leave precisely as you came."

"How could I possibly?" she whispered, the air between the crackling with unspoken frustrations. "It was out of my hands then, as it is out of my hands now. Sometimes I wonder if you knew me at all."

"At times I wonder the same," he allowed. "I cannot give you Jon. Anything else you would have is yours, but not him. I haven't the strength to quarrel with you on this, so you had best take what I offer and settle for it, lady." He seemed to believe they were in any way on equal ground. But she did wonder what that mind of his conjured to put the both of them in such positions.

"You would take a child from his mother? To what purpose, Your Majesty? Jon is no true born son, he cannot be of any use to you. But to me," she trailed off for emphasis. "Surely you understand you are asking for the unconscionable."

"That, my lady, is where you are wrong." His proof was produced without further comment. Lyanna watched in fascination as he withdrew from the pile of papers what looked to be a fairly old order, written with golden letters. "Your son is as legitimate as my own."

She reached for the parchment. Rhaegar released it in her hands and she began reading, the chancellery hand she recognised well enough and had a hair idea of who it had been that had written down the words. The bastard, he had actually gone on to create further trouble for her. It stood upon the tip of her tongue to spew a few choice words. "You need not acknowledge this. Your Majesty, surely you see it would be a most grievous mistake. Jon has no need of Summerhall. And I would not wish such a burden upon him."

"You would rather have him shackled to a condition of penury and perpetual dependency on the charity of his betters." Once more, he did not pose a question as much as it was an accusation. It was not precisely that she did not desire a keep and title for her son, and should she be able to reconcile his position with the inherent danger, she might have easily accepted the offered payment. It could be no other thing but a mocking payment for her aid, unwilling as it had been.

"I would rather have him safe and happy at my side. Father would take us in and Jon would grow alongside his kin." She swallowed with some difficulty. "That is sufficient, Your Majesty. I do not want him embroiled in any of the schemes and plans which come about."

"Do you not have any faith in your son?"

"What an unfair question to ask. He could be the most honest of men, but the rest of the world would not necessarily follow his lead. What will you do when the court gathers around him weaving a nefarious plot? What will your son do when it comes his time to rule?"

"A rather bleak view. And unfair to any of those mentioned."

"I am not making a moral judgement," she clarified, not liking his tone. "I am being realistic. Do you not think I should like for all of us to get along?" He shrugged, seemingly brushing her words away. "Have you not learned a thing, Your Majesty? Have you truly blinded yourself to any relevant lessons?"

He did not back down, but neither did he advance with an attack in answer to her outburst. For a first, he seemed to be considering the idea she put forth with some care. What more could she possibly ask for?

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. vii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Varys paused, his thumb pressed into the middle of his palm. He had been rubbing his hands for the past few minutes, having listened to the request with nary a comment. Rhaegar was not at all certain what that meant. It was difficult to tell with such an able liar. The Spider could as well be projecting the mien he thought was expected of him. He drummed his fingers against the edge of the table. "Well, can you aid me in this, Master of Whisperers?"

"It would be difficult to trace the origin. Your late father, you understand, did not share all his plans with me. It would be of much help if you allowed me to see the missive, Your Majesty." He had thought as much. Rhaegar considered his options. The missive was resting at the bottom of the drawer. He could pull it out and allow the Spider to inspect it. On the other hand, what if Varys decided such a matter was not for Rhaegar to discover and simply set about destroying every small clue?

And if Varys knew nothing of the matter, what did that say? For as long as his father had been alive, the Spider had been an eminently trustworthy source of information. His stalwart insistence had thwarted for than its fair share of well-laid plans. To think that the madman had deliberately hidden from him such a thing was nigh unconscionable. His paused in his drumming. Varys' eyes fell to his fingers. Rhaegar took up the habit once more, concentrating on the rhythmic tapping sound. The silence extended between them, tension creeping out ever so slightly. Rhaegar wondered for a moment whether it was him that had tensed or the other man. Varys gave nothing away, his face a perfect mask of blandness. Even the thin smile he usually wore has receded into a straight line. So much for the charming and innocuous image the Spider presented to the dumb and unaware. The ubiquitous rubbing returned though. Much like his incessant tapping, Varys found his solace, it would appear, in the small waves of friction.

A soft sigh, slightly louder than the quietness engulfed them. Rhaegar had the urge to stand and walk about the room. Instead, he lifted his fingers from the wood and reached for the drawer, opening it gingerly. His hand delved into the mass of papers, sifting through the multitude until he reached the bottom one, from there he tugged the bit of paper from dark to light. He placed it upon the surface of the table, pushing it gently towards the Spider.

The man picked it up and unfolded it. His eyes fixed upon the lines, following them meticulously. Rhaegar was fairly certain he could guess with high accuracy the very word he was reading at the moment. In spite of that, he saw very little reaction on the Spider's face. As though no surprise, no recognition, no emotion whatsoever passed through him. He waited for Varys to finish, keeping silent throughout the whole of it.

"Brandon Stark, Your Majesty?" The Spider's breathy voice ruptured the silence. Rhaegar inclined his head. Brandon Stark, beloved brother. He very nearly snorted at the notion. "I know not of his current location. But I daresay he should not be all that hard to find. There is one small matter though."

"For the moment, simply find him. I want him brought back as soon as can be." He held his hand out for the missive. "We shall see after what manner of understanding is reached." He held no particular wish for another clash with that brash man. Gods, how mad he'd been when Rhaegar had presented Lyanna with the crown of roses. Frothing at the mouth. It should have been amusing. It should have brought a smile to his lips at least. He felt not even a trickle of enjoyment at the thought. "No one is to know of this, you understand."

"I can make arrangements." Rhaegar crumpled the piece of paper in his fist. "Is there anything else you wish of me?"A number of things. He voiced none of them.

"You may be on your way, I've no further need of you." The dismissal was met with a sycophantic little bow and a nod. Varys left his solar, the whisper of his steps lingering longer than his presence. Rhaegar stood at long last. The crumpled ball of parchment was deposited back in the small drawer, lost between its brethren. Having his suspicious confirmed lifted some of the weight off his shoulders.

How interesting that even banished Brandon Stark had such a strong grip on his sister's affection and, might be more importantly on her actions, guiding her towards a singular objective. A smarter man might have had the decency to sit down and think upon the character of his partner. A wiser man would have looked to the evidence, to the history. Choked laughter bubbled upon his lips. He had well and truly done it. He could summon Lyanna, question her to the smallest detail. He could find out every single bit of truth that she had guarded so zealously. To think she had, on her own, with so very little support from anyone else, carried such a burden.

He could, on the other hand, leave matters be. She had asked to be given back in her father's care. She had brothers. It should be enough suffering to be kept away from them for such a long time, with very little or possibly no opportunity to explain the situation. And he had no right, certainly, to put on his armour and pretend to be a knight. It might be better to simply write to Lord Stark. He might well send someone for his daughter, and his son if it came to that.

That left him with one small problem. Jon. His brother would certainly suffer should he send Lyanna away. And then there was Daenerys. His sister had grown, very much so, with Lyanna as her maternal figure. That he could not give her; his family was his, after all. And he had no obligation whatsoever to share his family. Not even with Lyanna, not even in spite of all that had transpired between them.

A knock on the door preceded his youngest brother, summoned as though by his thoughts. Jon poked his head in, an unspoken question lingering in his gaze. Rhaegar simply nodded his agreement. That prompted the boy to enter, closing the door behind him with a thud. Jon shuffled closer, a sliver of hesitation marking his movements. "Lady mother said I might come," he offered, as though he needed some manner of excuse.

"Your lady mother had the right of it. I take it the maesters were pleased with your offerings." The boy gave a soft, uncertain nod. It reminded him of a deer listening for the first sign of danger. "Now then, what may I do for you?"

Jon closed the distance between them, walking around the desk. Rhaegar solved the small dilemma the child seemed to run into by tugging him ever so gently into his side when it became apparent he was in two minds. Whatever it was that had him so unbalanced, it was clear he would need some time to reach a decision. Rhaegar took a knee, bringing him to a comparable height to his brother. "Is something the matter?"

"I would rather take my lessons alone, Your Majesty." His voice was small, ridden with agony, suspiciously so.

"That can be arranged, certainly," he played along, "but I shall need some manner of justification for that. Why would you rather take your lessons alone?" Jon refused to look into his eyes, avoiding his gaze, choosing a spot somewhere over his shoulder. "Tell me more."

But the child's lips remained sealed. Having once been a child himself, he recalled with distinct clarity that whatever approach he chose to venture into was fraught with anxiety. "Whatever it is you need to tell me, I am listening." Jon glanced up at that; for a brief moment.

"I would feel much better taking the lessons on my own." Rhaegar nodded his understanding and rose to his feet. He kept a close hold upon the boy as he searched for his father's will. He sifted through the documents upon his desk.

"Understandable. But given current limitations, would it be truly fair if you were to have your own maesters and all the other children had to share?" There was no immediate answer from his brother. Then Jon drew a breath and gave what seemed to be an unwilling shake of the head. "Well then, we must look into a solution which would afford you a maester of your own." He found the deed he'd been looking for. Lyanna would not like it one bit, he presumed, but then she had little say. "What do you say of this?"

His brother chewed on his lower lip, reading slowly. His upper lips moved ever so slightly indicating he murmured the words under his breath. "Do you know what this means?"

"His Majesty gave me Summerhall." For a first he heard something akin to joy from the boy. Then his brow furrowed and he looked up into Rhaegar's face. "His Majesty is dead though." He allowed Jon to work on that thought while he placed the deed upon the table and ratified it with a stroke of a quill, effectively granting the uncertain child standing before him control over what had been a dream for him for the longest time. Might be one day he would find the strength to step foot into that place once again. "Would Your Majesty allow me to have Summerhall?"

Rhaegar stroked Jon's head gently. "It is already yours." A small grin cracked the stiff mask of apathy. "And you may have your own maester without the need to share it with anyone else." And he, meantime, would have a word with the keep's masters. Whatever had soured his brother's enjoyment of taking lessons had to be dealt with.

"What of Dany?" The poor boy. It all came back to such expectations as had been formed before his ascension upon the throne.

"Daenerys would remain here, with me. As she is supposed to. A man must take care of those who depend upon him." An owlish blink replied to his words. "What shall you do with a keep if your own?"

Jon pursed his lips, looking for all intents and purpose to be concentrating on the question. "I will take care of mother. And of Aeksion."

"Who is that?"

"My horse. He is golden." Rhaegar chuckled at the explanation and shook his head lightly. "Your Majesty," Jon tugged on his sleeve, indicating his attention was required, "can grandfather visit? And my uncles?"

"In your home you may receive anyone you wish," he clarified gently.

"His Majesty never allowed it. He said the North is full of savages." That seemed like the mean-spirited kind of thing his father would say. Did it please him greatly to hurt those around him? What else could explain such vicious behaviour.

"And did you believe him?" Jon shrugged. "Your lady mother is from the North. Does she seem like a savage to you?"

"Nay."

"Is is rarely such arbitrary distinctions which make the man," he explained in as simple terms as he could find. "A man might be a savage whether he be of our kingdom or another. Even us ourselves could well adopt the mantle in appropriate circumstances." Confusion lingered on the child's features. "Have you ever done a good deed?"

"Aye, Your Majesty. I helped mother tether her horse every time we go riding."

"And have ever done a bad deed?" Jon hesitated. "You are not going to be punished. I promise."

"I took some lemon cakes from the kitchens." Fairly innocuous. Rhaegar nodded his understanding.

"So then are you good, or bad?" The question seemed to take Jon by surprise.

After a few moments of silence, he answered, "Can I not be both?" A small grunt of frustration accompanied his words.

"That is indeed the case. If your good deeds outweigh the bad, then you cannot be a savage. Every man you meet must be judged by these standards." His brother gave a brisk nod. Chaos, he reckoned, had its part to play, but there was little use in nuanced analysis when he spoke to a mere child. One day, they would discuss the finer points as well. "Now, until all matters are properly taken care of, you must attend lessons with the others."

"But I have my own maester."

"So you do. At Summerhall. Here, in my home, you abide by my rules. That is only fair." The explanation did not seem to pleasing. Nonetheless, Rhaegar went on, "And when you are in your own home you will follow such rules as apply there. And I too would follow your rules in your home."

"But I do not want to take lessons with the others!" He heard the crack of desperation and steeled himself against the rising anxiety.

"So you have said. But as I told you, I cannot give you your own maester without good reason. Else each child might wish for a private instructor. Unless, of course, you decide to tell me why you no longer wish to take lessons with the others." As before, Jon grew quiet at the prodding. Rhaegar did not press. He would find out some way or the other.

Before either of them could say another words though, a less timid invasion of her privacy commenced. "There you are," Lyanna spoke, presumably to her son. By her expression it became apparent she had a bone to pick with her son. And Rhaegar found himself oddly pressed to act as shield when Jon burrowed into his side, clutching at him.

That brought his mother to a short stop. "What is the matter, my lady? Can brothers not visit each other?" Rhaegar questioned, trying to distract her attention.

She, however, was a stubborn as a mule. "Jon, come here."

"You said I could come to my brother whenever I pleased," his brother retorted.

"When it is appropriate to do so. Not when you must face the consequences of your own actions." That certainly sounded ominous enough.

"It might help if you deigned to explain your grievances."

"Your Majesty will certainly hear the whole of it from the maester. But I should like to discipline my son."

"And I would like to hear why you mean to discipline him."

"Good grief, Rhaegar." He cocked his head to the side at that answer. "If you must know he has disrupted the maester with his behaviour."

"You may certainly discipline him, my lady, if you see fit. However, you will only do so after you have calmed yourself." She took a step forth. She stopped once more.

"You ought to speak to the maester," she said at long last, sounding less wroth than before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, this is still just fiction.


	8. viii.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stepping away from the small desk at the persistent sound, Lyanna carelessly threw her quill upon the chair, not caring whether it landed upon that or the ground. What she did care about was the fact that her equilibrium was heinously upset by the commotion without her door and she wished dearly to be able to do her sums in silence. Nevertheless, she walked to the door and tugged it open.

A bondswoman, tall and thin, awaited upon the other side. She pressed a small piece of parchment into her hand before bobbing hastily. There were no words on her part and Lyanna understood by that she was not to ask questions. Used to such proceedings, she allowed the woman to be on her way and returned to her desk, the soft thud of a closing door in her wake.

Gingerly, she opened the parchment. Within, neat, small letters tied together. A soft sigh came from her. He could summon her if he wished to speak. Nonetheless, she slipped the message into the small pocket in the lining of her sleeve. She followed that by retrieving her quill and returning to the sums strewn on the pages before her. The interruption had set her back some. Nibbling on her lower lip, she searched for the middling lines which had held her attention before. Underneath grain, somewhere. Her finger traced along with her sight.

There is was. Relief washed over her. She eyed the separate sheet she’d used to verify the numbers reported back. So far, so good. But of course she would need to check further if she returned to Summerhall. Servants were only to be trusted so far. She continued with her task until she’d reached the section dedicated to the cost of feeding the small contingent of men-at-arms. Since members had been added to their number shortly before she’d left with Jon and she had allocated a larger number of coins so as to accommodate them, Lyanna had not expected to come up short to the tune of two silver Stags.  

It could be that two Stags had been filched by an opportunistic individual, or, she may well have made some mistakes herself. The only way to find an answer to that was to redo the entire section and hope that the gods took pity and the numbers corresponded. The tip of her quill touched the paper as she scribbled a column of numbers into existence. Though she inwardly protested at the volume of it, she saw no recourse but to throw herself in her work, lest she remain with more of it for another day with the burden of doing sums.

On she continued until she was disturbed once more. This time the same bondwoman came in carrying candles. Knowing the sun would soon set and she must move swiftly, Lyanna tucked away her quill, placing it between the pages of the voluminous ledger, the tip facing the lancet letting in a soft breeze.

“Pray disturb nothing within this chamber,” she addressed the servant knowing she would remain within, “and let my son know I will return as swiftly as I may.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

Without a second thought, she grabbed hold of a thick woollen shawl and wrapped it about her shoulders before leaving the chamber in the care of the bondswoman. Without, as though summoned by her very thoughts, Ser Oswell greeted her with a warm smile. “I wonder at this turn of events, my lady,” he spoke easily, the crinkles around his eyes underscored by the obvious amusement he exuded. He held out his hand, the offering one as welcome as it lacked subtlety. Oswell had never been one for excessive refinement, though she knew him capable.

“You and I as well, ser. I assure you, though, your wonder can be no greater than mine.”  She grinned up at him, curling her fingers around his hand, enjoying the steadiness. “Know you his reason, or else  what awaits me?”

“Who can guess the minds of other men?” Oswell’s shoulder rose in a shrug and he tucked her hand in the indent of his bent arm. “A cloak would have served you better, lady. The dampness will likely disturb the fine yarns.” She glanced at the tightly knit threads, contemplated the ravages humidity might visit upon the fine craftsmanship.

“It makes no matter. One may always replace any such loss.” After all, Rhaegar had spoiled far more than a fine shawls of hers and she would not hold cloth against him anymore than she did his graver sins.

“Methinks the lady is ever too forgiving.” Doubtless, he spoke with the care of a long-time friend and the affection of a heart’s brother. She responded to that by lifting a hand to place upon his arm. “But give my words no quarter should they displease you, for I know such matters are well beyond the capacity of a humble knight to judge.”

“It is not a matter to be judged, ser, any more than I let it be. I implore, take this not as chastisement, for ‘tis meant as simply my desire, but I would not have my King spoken ill of. Not in my presence, and, I hope, nor without it either.” The knight’s lips bent into a bitter smile.

“You would not see justice done?” She neither started, nor enthused at the question.

“Justice is the province of gods, and if they decide to pursue it then I shall know myself avenged, though I’ve little wish for it. And if not, then I will know to trust in their plan.” Nay; idle hatred would help her none. She could not allow herself to be the prisoner of a monstrous display of fury. “I, at least, can for my own peace forgive what is in my power to and forthwith move past such events.”

“Can one truly move past them? It seems to me a wound too grave.”

“A wound untended festers. I merely have scars of past skirmishes.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The numbing presence of her brother was the driving force behind her realisation that no matter the decision of her heart, without her own person the universe moved inexorably forth. She drew in a shaky breath, at pains to smile upon the return of lost kin. She was not so much greeting a brother as she was taking her leave of a lifetime. Nevertheless, her slow steps brought her within the circle of Brandon’s arms as it had done upon the first moments of their reunion. She hid her face away from the low light of burning torches and he, as ever, shielded her from whatever it was that he perceived as a threat.

“Ravens have been sent.” Rhaegar spoke, his voice rising above the beating of her own heart and the muffling effect of her brother’s arms. It sounded as a knell might. “The deed had been signed and you shall receive it as soon as you are ready for travel.” He was giving as much as he could, or would, she realised, her heart squeezing painfully at the thought that he was willingly exiling her. Or was he exiling himself, albeit in a prison of gold and feathers. Still a prison, still keeping him from more than he would ever know.

Breaking free of her brother, she took a step away. The distance alleviated some of the pain as it allowed her to concentrate on aught else than her feelings. “Why would you part with Summerhall, Your Majesty?” Essos had polished her brother, sharpening him as a whetstone did the blade’s edge. “It would serve better some greater purpose, I do not doubt.”

“If the man hallows the place, then I can think of no greater purpose to Summerhall than serving as home to my brother.” For a brief moment, Lyanna thought to confess, to tell him all. But he pressed on and the change was past. “Lord Lannister shall await upon your convenience. I do not doubt his daughter will bring sufficient dowry, if this arrangement be pleasing.”

“You go to great length to make reparations,” Brandon noted. How much he’d changed. She’d expected him to outright refuse taking Cersei Lannister to wife. And yet there her brother stood. “I believe there is more than enough blame to go around. As such, though they come nigh a decade too late, I would present apology as well.”

Rhaegar’s gaze shifted from him to her. “Whatever your fault, ser, it is not even a tenth of mine. If it please, I accept the apology, though I do so for your comfort rather than by necessity.” Brandon nodded grimly.

“Then it shall be as Your Majesty has planned.” Lyanna resigned herself to the eternal separation. Brandon’s hand fell to her own, taking hold of the listless limb. She wished she had the strength to squeeze back. But for that moment, that precise instant arrested in time, she had just enough command of herself to hold her tongue and open her heart to change.

One day, when his wounds had healed, she would be there still. If he reached for her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End 
> 
> N.B.: The author does not in any way agree with every single thing any of the characters do/have done. This is fiction, thereby not meant to represent a coherent and cohesive opinion, nor an endorsement. 
> 
> Moving on, I know some of you will find this abrupt, and if you want an account of why, I'll give it. Until such point, I'll happily hold my counsel.


End file.
